


Of Trahearne and Caladbolg

by LukeVonCastiel



Category: Guild Wars, Guild Wars 2
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LukeVonCastiel/pseuds/LukeVonCastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trahearne ponders on Caladbolg, and his history with its first owner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Trahearne and Caladbolg

Trahearne wondered if this was the Dream’s idea of a bitter joke.

Sitting alone within the House of Riannoc, he pondered the thought. The Dream was not malicious. It did not seek to destroy and corrupt as the Nightmare did, or as the Elder Dragons, or even as some factions of the other races of Tyria. It simply seeked to remove the threats that plagued the world, placing burdens upon the shoulders of him and the other sylvari , sending them out to cleanse the darkness.

Yet he could not help but think that perhaps the Dream had darker plans for him, as he ran his fingers over the sword in his lap.

Caladbolg.

How, oh how, had it come to him?

While the sword itself shone brightly, shining with the light of the Mother Tree herself, the memories it held for him were not so. Rather shadows grew in his heart, a sorrow the sword and this place brought forth. Yet where else could he go? Though he was welcome to wander any part of the Grove, it was here that he called home.

Why would he have any need to grow his own, when his time was to be spent within the barren expanses of Orr, hiding from the dead as he learnt all that could be gleaned from its ruins? And why would he have gone to any other home, when the one who held his heart had lived here?

Riannoc.

Trahearne closed his eyes, head bowed and shoulders slumped as he let his memories come forth.

Smiles on a face more glorious than any other he had known, any other he would know. Arms that wound around him whenever he returned, capturing him in an embrace that made him remember what it felt like to be safe, to be loved, to be home. Eyes that glinted brightly as they spoke, words more romantic and passionate than anything Trahearne had uttered since.

The moments that were loud, when Riannoc would recount the adventures of him and the other Firstborn, of his human squire, of the happenings in the Grove and its growing connections with the world beyond. When he would insisted that they dance and sing, to simply enjoy the fact that they were here, alive, together, and Trahearne had always joined him, unable to resist. When they fought together, duels to keep in shape, so that when either faced a foe they knew the other would be well-prepared.

Then the moments that were soft. When they had gathered beneath the Pale Tree’s boughs, felt her glowing warmth run through them as they slept. When Riannoc had brought him flowers, and books, and words, things that had made Trahearne blush and smile and laugh. When they laid together, always gentle with each other. Though the act of making love itself had never been particularly quiet, the hours after it always were. Those were perhaps the only hours Trahearne could ever truly sleep, for at other times he felt so plagued with the darkness of Orr that it constantly escaped him.

There were moments that were happy, moments that were wondrous, moments that were silly, amusing, sensual, romantic. There were even moments when they argued, out of fear for one another, or for the safety of their friends. Of what actions to take, of what words to say.

He remembered their last argument. Over Waine, of all the blasted things in Tyria. Riannoc trusted the boy with his life, Trahearne didn’t. It wasn’t that he thought the boy was cruel, or evil, but that he was young and cowardly, and had a fear within him that Trahearne knew Riannoc did not understand.

At the time, Trahearne himself had not even understood it. For all his necromancy and his knowledge of Orr and the Risen, he had known so little of death.

But he also remembered how the argument had ended. With the first promise Riannoc had made that he had not kept. He swore to bring him home a flower, a bloom native to Lychcroft Mere, and to celebrate his victory Trahearne would wear it in his hair.

But he had not brought that bloom home. And neither did he bring Caladbolg, or Waine, or the glorious news of Mazdak’s defeat.

He did not bring anything back to the Grove. He could not, when he was dead.

Trahearne remembered the moment Riannoc had fallen, for he had felt it in his heart. The loss of Riannoc reverberated throughout the Dream, and Trahearne had wept. He had not even been in the Grove, but on Claw Island waiting for a ship to Orr. Yet alone in that place full of strangers he had wept, and it was the only time any had seen him cry.

Trahearne opened his eyes, looking once again at the sword that lay in his lap. The gift the Pale Tree had bestowed upon Riannoc, that had been stolen from his grip by a man he trusted, to be returned to the grove by a young sylvari.

And then to fall into the hands of his lover.

To Trahearne.

'And perhaps it is fitting,' he murmured, fingers stroking the surface wearily. 'You had always said that one day you would follow me into Orr, to stand at my side when my Wyld Hunt would reach its completion. And perhaps you do. For though Caladbolg is of the Pale Tree, it carries the brightness of your spirit.'

For a moment, it seemed to glow even brighter, as if responding to his words. And Trahearne smiled and held back his tears, and for the first time in many years felt as if his Wyld Hunt were truly possible.

"Yes, you shall be at my side when all of this reaches its conclusion, my love.’

…

And on a grave far away, in the shadowy swamps of Lychcroft Mere, a single bloom grew. It reached ever out for the Grove, awaiting the moment when the one it was meant for would come forth.

And Riannoc knew, from his place within the Dream, that for every bitter joke and gift it gave, something beautiful would come forth as well.


End file.
